Nation Protection Program
by ToTheBeatofMyOwnDrummer
Summary: Sometimes protecting witnesses can be difficult. Protecting witnesses who don't technically exist, can be even harder.
1. Mr Jones

Hello everyone, this story was spawned by an idea I had and a Plot Bunny who went in to business together and forgot to ask me about it. I'm not sure how good it is, and would like constructive feedback, but mostly I'm writing this to prove to myself that I actually can finish a multi-chapter story. Check out my profile if you want to know more about how I plan to be updating this fic. I'm also trying out a new style of writing with this, different from my previosu stories, so let me know what you think, and how you think I can improve.

General warnings- None really. There may be some implied shounen-ai/slash, as well as some implied het, but nothing explicit so you can safely read this without your eyebealls melting from your head. If I decide to change this policy at any time, there will be a suitable warning in the AN before that cahpter. There will be some swear words used, but nothing too bad.

Well, continue forth, and I hope you enjoy what you find.

(P.S If you find the random CSI: Miami tidbit in this chapter, you get a virtual cookie.)

* * *

_"Since 1970, the Federal Witness Protection Program has relocated thousands of witnesses; some criminal, some not, to neighborhoods all across the country. Every one of these individuals shares a unique attribute, distinguishing them from the rest of the general population, and that is: somebody wants them dead."_

The day started out much the same as any other: her alarm clock had turned off due to a power surge in the middle of the night, she hadn't been able to find two matching socks and had walked out the door without her keys, her 'replacement car' had been dangerously low on gas and she'd had to stop at the gas station closest to her house, which she hated because their prices were ridiculously high, and to top it all off Stan had called while she'd been cringing at the number which had been rung up on her credit card after she'd barely filled two gallons, which was the bare minimum required to get her to work, and she was still convinced that damn pump counter-thing had been laughing at her as she cursed at it, very colorfully and inventively. If Stan had been surprised at her less than cheerful tone when she answered her cell, he didn't comment, simply stating that she was to see him as soon as she got to the office because apparently she had a new, high-profile witness.

Oh joy.

When she finally strode into the office, twenty minutes later than her usual 'ten minutes later than strictly allowed' allowance, Marshall turns, opens his mouth, obviously to ask what's up, but once he catches sight of the look on her face, he wisely switches his smart-aleck greeting for a standard 'Good morning' and hands her a full mug of coffee, as black as you can get it. Mary nearly groans in bliss after she takes her first fortifying gulp.

"Marshall, remind me to give you a raise."

"As much as I am flattered by the thought Mary, you unfortunately to not have that ability."

"Well then remind me to threaten Stan into giving you a raise."

"Will do."

Mary threw herself into her seat, managing to both not spill and take another swig from her mug at the same time, how we'll never know, and again her eyes nearly roll back in pleasure. This is the good stuff from the coffee shop down the block, not the government processed crap they have on tap in the office, and she can feel just a bit of her bad mood ebbing despite herself. She definitely has the best friend a girl could ever have, and she tells Marshall as such. He feigns the appropriate shock and she resists the urge to throw her stapler at him. Just another day in the exciting lives of two federal marshals. That is, until she catches sight of the two people occupying the 'waiting room', read: 'cage', conveniently located right next to her desk.

Two people she doesn't recognize sit inside. Well, one of them is sitting, leaning back in the chair so it's balanced on two legs, with feet propped up on the table, the other is pacing, waving his arms and yelling by the look of him. She cranes her head, trying to get a better look at the pair but Stan walks up then and completely obscures her view. "You'll have plenty of time to gawk later Mary, right now I need both your and Marshall's undivided attention." Mildly startled and just enough interested by the flatly serious tone in her overlord's voice, she turns towards him as her fellow detective comes over to prop his butt on the edge of her desk.

It's a testament to their friendship that he doesn't immediately find himself lying belly-up on the floor for this unforgiveable breech of Mary's Personal Bubble (fully copyrighted and all that jazz).

"All right Inspectors, here's the deal: since apparently I no longer have the right to know anything about what's going on around here anymore, I have very little I can tell you about your new witness-"

"_Our _new witness?" Mary and Marshall chorus in startled unison. Stan pauses to give them a look before continuing. "Yes, _both _of you will be assigned to this case, as from what I can gather, this one will only be in WITSEC for a highly-temporary amount of time, and-please, Inspectors I know it's hard but hold all questions until I'm done." Two mouths snap closed in audible harmony and Stan sighs. "Look, all I know is that he was picked up outside DC after he broke up an attempted gang-robbery of a store there. Turns out he unintentionally got in deep with this gang, the _Mala Noches _and they've put out a hit on him, and apparently this kid's got some friends in some pretty high places, since that is the _head _of the US Marshal Service in there with him, as he requested to _personally_ drop him off. So far, Mr. Jones has refused to change his name, and at first refused to move or even enter the program at all but finally agreed when he learned he would only have to be relocated for a month or so-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, a month? Are you kidding me? Why bother relocating him to Albuquerque at all? Why not just let the DC branch handle him, or hell, even the FBI if he's such a high-profile case?"

"I don't know Mary, that's what I'm trying to tell you! I don't know why it's such a big deal that we keep this kid safe, and to tell you the truth, I don't really care. It's our job to keep him safe, not to know why, and it sure as hell isn't my job to question the head of the Marshal Service when he tells me to guard a witness under mysterious circumstances. Now, I know warning you not to question him about what's going on is a waste of time, so I'm not gonna say it, but be aware, Inspectors, from this point on you two are his constant companions, I don't even want him going to the bathroom without one of you holding his hand. If anything happens to Mr. Jones before the end of this month, than it's going to be all of out butts in a sling, got it?" Nods all around, though less than enthusiastic ones to be sure. Stan decided to be happy it wasn't outright refusal and handed over the, unusually skimpy, brown folder with all the information to Marshall. Shaking his head as Mary snatched it away before the taller detective could do more than open it, Stan wearily made his way back to his office.

This was going to be one long month.

The blonde marshal scowled as she flipped through the two or three pages contained within the folder. "What is this crap? All we've got is a name, a birth date, hair color, eye color, height, weight, age, and why he's in witness protection in the first place. No previous address, no personal contacts to be aware of, no mother or father's names, hell, not even a birth certificate! How do we know if this guy is even who he really says he is?" Marshall, reading over Mary's shoulder, simply shrugged and scooped up the file, closing it and heading towards the door to the glass-enclosed waiting area.

"I suppose we're just going to have to live with it, though I know how much you hate that phrase. Besides, I'm pretty sure you'll have milked him dry of all information you deem worth of your attention by the end of the day." She perked up slightly at the thought and followed her friend with a not-quite smile on her face, but at the least a sunnier disposition than she'd had since she first woke up this morning. Marshall shook his head at her, but offered her a smirk anyway.

"C'mon, let's go meet this Alfred F. Jones, and form our own opinions of his character for ourselves."


	2. Contrast

I was so bored/motivated that I went ahead and wrote a whole nother chapter. It's currently 1:05 AM here, so I'm not sure how coherent it is, but here ya go. This chapter is mostly character developement, and getting more into the swing of a totally different writing style. Not sure how it's turning out, but I'd love some (constructive) feedback. (: Even anonymous is helpful.

Warnings for this chapter- None.

Disclaimer: Sorry, forgot this last chapter. This is the only one I'm going to do for the whole story, so take notice! I do not own APH, America, IPS, Mary, or Marshall. I do, however, own this rather cracked-out excuse for a plot/fic.

Note: When you get to the part that describes his new house and the one particular room, try and envision it in your mind. Does it sound anything like America? How about like any of the other lovely awesome characters from Hetalia (whom I am only borrowing)? Does it make you think of any conflicts that happened recently?

Make more sense now? ^_^

* * *

Walking into the waiting area was like walking into a rather hilariously constructed tableau, what with the to-be-feared head of all the marshals currently living and working in the US of A stopped dead in the middle of empathically waving his arms above his head, mouth hanging open and well on his way to developing a brain aneurysm if the rather impressive shade of purple he's turning was anything to go by. For his part, Mr. Jones simply laughs at the scandalized expression on the man's face before turning his beaming face on his new best friends.

"So, I guess you guys're supposed t' be my new babysitters?" The teen bounces out of his chair almost before the two front legs are finished slamming home into the floor with a rather relieved thud. He throws out one hand to Marshall, since he entered first, who shakes it in something like amused bemusement, before turning the full force of his smile on Mary and offering her the same greeting.

Getting her first good look at her witness, Mary is rather surprised. Not that she could have told you why, precisely. Possibly because as soon as she'd heard the words 'high-profile' she had immediately called to mind a spoiled little rich boy, either too high-and-mighty to even recognize the existence of his underlings, or too withdrawn from society and buried under how 'hopeless' and 'tortured' his life was because his parents won't let him vacation on Mars or something that Mary would have hated him on sight, or something like that. Whatever she had been expecting, Alfred F. Jones was most certainly not it.

He was blond in a way that couldn't be anything but natural, the bright gold-straw coloring to it like nothing she had ever seen come in a bottle, and believe you me she had looked. He was dressed in what looked like old, comfortable, wear-them-anywhere jeans, old but not falling apart yet sneakers, a dark magenta 'I *heart* NY' tee, and interestingly, what looked like an authentic dark-brown WWII bomber jacket, though she immediately knew it had to be a recreation, I mean, who would really wear one of those around now days, they'd probably keep it in a museum or something. He wore glasses, simple and wire-framed, and his eyes were shining with almost childish glee. They were also the most amazing shade of blue Mary had ever seen, seriously, she was pretty sure any self-respecting actress/supermodel combo in the world would pay through the nose to have eyes anywhere near that impossibly natural sky-blue color.

He looked to be about 18-19ish, barely out of high school at best. He looked like your average, 'pass-em-everyday on the street' kinda kid. And Mary was only slightly amazed that she liked him on-sight. That immediately sent her shields slamming up. After all, she didn't even know the guy yet and she was already forming snap judgments? What the hell had Marshall put in that coffee? She slid a suspicious glance her partner's way as she took a seat across from Mr. Jones and his 'handler'. "That's us. Just your standard, government-issued, not nearly paid enough, babysitters. With license to carry." The teen laughed again at her particular Mary-brand of wit while Marshall exchanged a few words with his handler before the other man practically bolted out the door.

Mr. Jones didn't appear to care that he'd been essentially abandoned in a strange place with two people he'd never met by the only person he knew in possibly the whole state. Nope. Instead, he just leaned back in his chair again, knees propped on the edge of the table, grinning that same mega-watt grin and looking happy as you please to be in the middle of Nowheresville, USA.

She was weirdly unnerved that she wasn't weirdly unnerved by this total stranger's behavior, since something at the back of her mind kept prodding her and saying that this was perfectly normal behavior for this person she'd known for less than three minutes. Shoving it into the rather-overstuffed 'to be analyzed later' folder in the overflowing filing-cabinet that was her subconscious, she got down to business.

"Okay, Mr. Jones-"

"Oh good swee' Lor', don't call me that!" The blonde teen twanged, looking pained at the implication that he would ever be referred to as 'Mr.' anything.

The two WITSEC agents exchanged a look; Marshall's quietly amused, and Mary's loudly irritated. Marshall decided to take the initiative on this one, since not doing so may lead to further deterioration of Mary's already constantly frayed patience. "Well than, since I see you haven't chosen a cover identity-"

"Didn't see th' point; seein as I'm only gonna be in witness protection for like a month."

"….Right. But, for the time being, you may want to think about changing your name. Just for the time being."

The kid frowned, the expression already looking like it didn't belong on his face to the two marshals. "Well I don't really want to…Most people never refer to me by my hu-..regular name anyway."

Identical eyebrows quirked towards the ceiling. Marshall's stayed there, while Mary's furrowed into a scowl almost instantly. She liked this kid for unfathomable reasons. She had to force herself to act like her normal self around him, and that made her unhappy. Confusing feelings + mixed emotions = Unhappy Mary. Unhappy Mary = Unhappy everybody else and/or sardonic-sarcastic Mary. Thankfully she was more feeling the latter. For now.

"Well, all right then. What _do _people usually call you?"

Cue blinding smile and unintentionally star-struck marshals. "Most people just call me 'America'!"

It takes three hours and four more cups of coffee (three of them for Mary) before they finally arrive at the safe house that had been assigned to Alfred "America" Jones. Neither of them had ever been to this area of Albuquerque, mostly because new witnesses started out in 'fixer-uppers', read: run-down ratholes, because that's all that was in the budget.

Apparently no expense had been spared for their mysterious, temporary witness.

The house was enormous. Like we are talking, _mansion _huge. It reminded Mary of the hacienda that one of her witnesses had lived in before she'd moved into a ganged out ghetto on the edge of town and subsequently gotten Mary shot. Come to think of it, that had been another 'high-profile' case, hadn't it? Mary flicked a wary look over to her new charge, wondering if she'd eventually have to take a bullet for this one too. She would of course, without a second thought, but it was experience she wasn't exactly keen on repeating.

Alfred (she'd refused to call him America, though Marshall had indulged him in his appropriately Marshall-esque way) stood in the exact middle of the foyer, staring without expression around the expansive room. She assumed he was impressed by the décor, she sure as hell was.

White and gray marble stretched as far as the eye could see, twisting into hallways, and other rooms, and one rather breath-taking staircase which was planted in the exact center of the massive entrance hall and wound up to the next floor in a spiral. Alfred, still without any emotion, turned and walked into the adjoining room. His sudden hard intake of air had her at his side in a second, hand already reaching for her holster. She looked around but didn't see anything that would have alarmed him.

In the room, she assumed it was the living room because of the beautifully tooled white-leather couch, it was very sparsely decorated, just the couch, a huge roaring fireplace, a flat screen, and a thick, violet rug in the middle of the floor to add a shock of color to the otherwise white space. Seriously, who had designed this place?

Confused, she turned to look at her charge, meaning to ask him what had startled him, when she caught sight of his face.

He'd gone sheet white under his tan, blue eyes wide and glassy as he stared at the room, and unless she'd suddenly gone crazy, he was trembling faintly in his thick bomber-jacket. Her protective instinct was going full steam now, and without thinking she grabbed hold of his shoulder, meaning to haul him around to look at her, get him to blink, do anything except stare with that horribly blank expression on his face.

He snapped out of it at her touch, turning to look at her, and it was like nothing had happened. The million-dollar smile was back and he was chattering again, just as he had in the car all the way here. "Thanks so much Inspector Shannon, really! I don't have that much stuff, so why don't you and Marshall just let me get settled alone, huh? I'm sure you guys are pretty sick a me by now anyway." His accent had changed. She barely heard him, just nodding ever so often as he talked, mind racing for an explanation for his strange reaction to the house, frustrated when she couldn't find one.

After they'd handed over his new cell phone, reminded him to call if he needed anything, and telling him they'd be there to check on him in the morning, to which he cheerfully replied "Ya'll better not show up a'fore noon, cause I sure as heck won't be awake!", they left for the day. Perfectly normal behavior, by what they'd seen so far, for the hyperactive teen. But it felt fake.

Something was wrong. It bothered her that she didn't know what. Bothered her that she even cared, but she did care and that just made it worse. When Marshall finally nudged her when she didn't respond with a snarky comeback to his fourth blatantly obvious Star Trek reference, she jumped as if shocked.

"Sorry, I was thinking."

"That much is painfully apparent. Wanna talk about it?"

"I never want to talk about it; you know that…But yeah. Did Alfred seem weird to you, right before we left?"

"If you mean so falsely cheerful and bright that it made my teeth ache, then yes. I know what you mean."

"So you noticed too, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Why? I mean, how can it feel like I've known him my whole life, when I only met him this morning?"

"No clue, although if he makes _you_ feel that strongly, I'm going to guess alien-abduction, either that or telepathic robot. Possibly both."

"Oh shut up and pull in to that Starbucks. You're buyin'."

"Naturally."


	3. Bright and Early

New chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed/favorited/or Alerted this story. It makes me very happy that everyone seems to be enjoying this so far.

Warnings: Some slashy hints, but nothing major. In fact, you probably wouldn't have even noticed at all if I hadn't mentioned it, so why don't we move on? Also, one of two swear words, but nothing terribly offensive.

So without further ado, here's the third chapter of NPP. (: Enjoy.

* * *

America managed to hold his grin until his marshals were safely out of sight. Still smiling, he closes the door behind which his expression immediately twists with something that is almost pain. Back still turned to the mammoth foyer, he slumps forward and rests his forehead against the dark-paneled wooden door. It's cold. Like everything else in this house. Steeling himself, he turns around.

The sheer overwhelming cleanliness of the house, sterile to the point of sparkling, makes him self conscious. A slob he ain't, couldn't be after living with someone like England for so long, but a neat-freak he isn't either. Another weird thing about the entire downstairs was that there were no doors and, he observed as he wandered through the expansive first floor, careful to avoid the seemingly-innocent living room, there were also no bedrooms. Must be on the next floor. He did manage to locate a kitchen, although every cupboard, drawer, and even the fridge was empty. Shrugging, he turned to make his way back into the foyer but somehow took a wrong turn (damn this house –mansion- was confusing as all get out) and ended up back in the very room which had stunned him into silence earlier. Even stepping back into it, glancing at it just for a second, set his mind reeling.

_It's so cold here. He hates cold. Hates that it has come to represent everything he finds distasteful and evil. _

_America's house is almost never cold, keeps it that way so his kids won't complain when they visit and because Hawaii is so susceptible to temperature change, although the little girl never complains. _

_Russia's house, however, is the polar opposite; he keeps it cold, even year round when summer comes and the snow melts outside his window. Alfred's never understood it, although he's starting to wonder if maybe Russia's house is reacting to the disposition of it's occupant, and if so, no man-made heating system will ever be able to compete with such frozen determination._

_Why is even here? Shouldn't he be pleased, even triumphant? The Soviet Union had finally fallen; this is what he had wanted! _

_Yet there's something tugging him toward the icy monolith of Russia's house, slogging through the snow, urging him faster, his 'Hero-sense' is tingling. Something's terribly wrong-_

Alfred finally remembers himself, tearing his gaze away and whirling back into the foyer. Grabbing his two duffel bags, he practically bolts up the staircase, faster than any human could ever accomplish, stumbling to a stop to stare at the upstairs hallway. Contrasting in odd harmony to the blinding white marble of downstairs, this floor is paneled entirely in dark wood. Almost instantly, he feels warmer. His muscles relax almost against their will and he wonders again who in the hell built such a weird house. M.C Escher perhaps? Throwing open the first door he comes to, he's somehow unsurprised to find it's a master bedroom, plainly decorated.

Once he's done unpacking all his things, he hadn't brought much since he didn't plan on staying long, he flopped back-first onto the bed , eyes closed and not even bothering to look at the bedspread, just happy to be able to lie down and rest the minor ache he can feel beginning to tug at his bones.

The economy had been looking up lately, and his people were slowly getting over it, so much so that he was able to almost completely ignore the light pain in his joints, easing now so that before long, he was sure it wouldn't even be there anymore. That was good. He didn't like it when his people were unhappy; it set up a harsh grating whine in the back of his mind and made him feel weird. The whining noise had subsided now into a more contented hum, which he was glad for. Tylenol didn't exactly work for him.

Rolling over onto his stomach, the young nation was asleep before he even realized it.

His dreams are muddled and make no real sense; he doesn't even remember them when he's awoken much later to an insistent rapping on his front door. Groaning, he sits up and glances at his alarm clock. 9:30 AM. America recognizes one 9:30 a day, and this certainly isn't it. Rubbing at his eyes, he all but drags himself down the stairs, glad that he hadn't bothered to change before going to be last night, since the temperature automatically dropped what had to be ten degrees when he left his warm haven upstairs. Shivering even in his thick jacket, he bemoans his incurable morning-person personality. Once he's awake, he can't go back to sleep until another day has elapsed. Sighing and figuring there's nothing for it, he throws open his door without thinking, or indeed caring, about whether there's an armed gunman on the other side. Unfortunately for him, there wasn't.

* * *

Mary glared at the disheveled countenance of the teen standing before her. It would've been funny under normal circumstances, what with his wheat-colored hair sticking up in a million directions, his clothes wrinkled to the point it's obvious he slept in them, and his bright blue eyes, sans glasses, squinting at her in the bright sunlight of an Albuquerque Saturday morning. But she was not in a good mood. She hated working on Saturdays. That, and despite fierce, stubborn, determination on her (and Marshall's) part the night before, she hadn't been able to unearth anything new to shed any light on her new charge. There had been one or two leads, something about an older brother who lived in London, that hadn't led anywhere, and she was well and truly frustrated by now.

The inspector brushed by the half-awake young man, who was currently scrubbing at his eyes and muttering something that sounded like 'Duh, forgot Texas…' under his breath, which she ignored as she looked over the still startling first floor of the house. It looked exactly the same. The marshal frowned, confused. By now, most of her witnesses would have all but plastered the house with 'homey-touches' the likes of which made her skin crawl, but she didn't see any such things; no nondescript pictures, or indeed descript ones that she would have had to, gleefully, confiscate immediately, no throw rugs, heck, not even any sign of a lace doily in sight. Why a high school/college age male would be doing with a lace doily she didn't even question herself about. It made sense in her head, and that was all that mattered.

She rounded on the kid, ready to ask him what exactly he'd been doing all night, and perhaps chew him out for so nonchalantly opening the door without so much as a 'who's there?'. Really, that was Safety 101, especially after having moved to a new, strange, neighborhood; she shouldn't have to tell him that. She blinked when she realized that Alfred looked decidedly less rumpled then he had five seconds ago, his hair back in it's admittedly already untidy style, his eyes much more alert, though still glazed as if he couldn't quite see her, and it even looked like his clothes had lost a few wrinkles. She was going to have to figure out how he did that. Fairy dust?

Sighing, she shook her head, only mildly irritated that she couldn't remember why she had wanted to yell at him in the first place. Did he have this effect on everyone, or was it only her? Well, and Marshall. Mary had of course heard of people who were impossible to stay mad at, but she had assumed such things were only an urban-myth, like Big Foot or the Loch Ness Monster. After all, _she _had certainly never had any problems staying mad with even the most pathetic of people. It was part of her 'special brand of Mary charm' as Marshall would say and she would scoff at him for.

Maybe the problem was that Alfred Jones wasn't pathetic. Indeed, he gave off the vibe like he could handle, and had handled, any problems the world or life had endeavored to throw his way. Mustering up her trademark scowl took effort, but she was vindicated when the blonde wilted slightly, like he expected to be chewed out but all she said was, "Did you go to sleep as soon as we left or something?"

Blinking huge blue eyes at her, which was really unfair, I mean _damn _what she wouldn't give for a pair a headlamps like that, he just grinned and nodded. "Pretty much. I wandered a bit to get my bearings, but after that I got pretty tired and went to get some sleep. Guess the trip took more outta me than I thought." His accent had changed again, more north of the Mason-Dixon than the cotton-pickin' southern twang of yesterday. This was an weird one, for sure. Gesturing towards the kitchen, he explained that he hadn't had any dinner last night since a) there was no food in the house and b) he had no car in which to go to the store or even the McDonald's up the street, and would she mind giving him a ride to Denny's? He could pay. Dazzling smile.

Fighting the urge to both grin in reflexive response and wince with guilt that she hadn't stayed to make sure her witness had the essentials, she just responded in typical Mary fashion. "Sure I'll take you, but not looking like that. You looked like something the cat chewed, decided it didn't like the taste, and coughed up."

That would have had most people's hackles up in response to her snide tone, but all Alfred did was laugh, say "Yes ma'am", and practically fly up the stairs in order to comply with her request/demand to change. Mary shook her head, nonplused once more. Yep. Definitely a weird one.


	4. Who?

This chapter is here to make-up for the character-develeopment/filler chapter 3. I read back over it and realized it didn't make much sense. -frown- I may rewrite it and re-upload it later, but I'm not sure. Lemme know your thoughts about it. (:

The plot actually moves forward in this chapter, so never fear! I do actually (sorta) know where I'm going with this.

Warnings: Couple a cuss words, nothing major. That's it for this chapter. Oh, and a new character get introduced, though that's not really a warning...

As always, enjoy and let me know what you think. (:

* * *

By the time they got to the diner, Mary was starting to get that weird 'known him for years' vibe she'd felt around the teen the day before. It was really beginning to make her curious, actually curious instead of irritated, and she'd taken to staring at Alfred whenever she had a chance, a fact that had caused quite a few irate car-honks from other cranky early morning drivers on their way here. If the mysterious young man had noticed anything out of the ordinary, he hadn't commented. In fact, he'd been unusually quiet (and how did she know that?) since he'd come back down the stairs after changing into yet another pair of well-worn jeans and a dark green t-shirt. He'd opted to leave his bomber jacket at home; smart seeing as it was barely ten in the morning and already 90 degrees out. Ah, the joys of living in the southern mid-west.

They'd seated themselves at a booth close to the door and had almost immediately been set upon by a twenty-something, chipper blonde waitress. The marshal had subconsciously braced herself for the fake-smile and fake-cheer which was pretty much standard issue with all members of this girl's profession, and had not been disappointed when the girl (cheerfully) introduced herself, after which Mary promptly forgot her name, and asked for their order in a voice too upbeat to be genuine. Alfred turned his signature smile on her and told her he'd have a short stack and coffee 'as black as she could get it please'; Mary had ordered just a cup of coffee. Once whatsername had left, taking their menus with her, the newly appointed babysitter had returned to her rather blatant staring. The other just hummed under his breath and looked around the restaurant like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Not even chattering. She couldn't take it anymore.

"What is it with you?" The blonde merely blinked at her like he didn't have the slightest idea what she meant (he didn't as a matter of fact. America was naturally oblivious that way).

"Wha'do you mean?"

"I mean, what's your angle, huh? What's your sob story? Where're the complaints about the living conditions, the bitching and moaning about how life is so unfair to do this to you of all people, heck, you haven't even cried all over me about how your life is completely ruined and you wanna go home yet. I mean, this is not normal behavior, you should be miserable!"

Slow blink. "Do you want me to be miserable?"

"Yes! No! I mean, I want you to react in _some way _that I'm familiar with, not this weird taking it all in stride attitude you seem to have about everything."

"Well, like I told ya'lls boss and everybody else who'd listen, I don't plan to be in witness protection long, I don't even _need _to be in witness protection." He leaned closer over the table, and then leaned back when the waitress came back and placed his order of pancakes in front of him. He didn't break Mary's gaze.

"I know you and your partner don't want to be on hand-holding duty any more than I want you to hold my hand, but since my boss is still outta town, and the Secretary of….Since nobody would listen to me when I told them this whole thing wasn't that big a deal, and I could look after myself just fine, we're just gonna have to live with each other until this whole thing blows over."

Obviously thinking the subject was closed, he promptly dug into his breakfast with hungry abandon, and Mary was left with far more questions than she'd had before setting foot in the Denny's.

* * *

Five hours after the two left the diner found Marshall meandering through the local Wal-Mart as 'America' bounced along beside him pushing a cart already overflowing with groceries. So far the detective had seen many a different brand of junk food, he'd counted twelve, going into the basket and not one item which Marshall would deem fit for human consumption on a daily basis. He hadn't brought this up as of yet, but when America had reached for a bottle of Jack Daniel's on the liquor isle, Marshall had felt it was his civic duty to say something.

"Not that I myself don't find it cathartic every once in a while to drown my sorrows, but I don't think I can support the growing problem of underage drinking in this our fair country."

"Huh? Underage-" The young man looked confused, but then lit up in understanding. "Oh! I get it; hold on, I know I have it on me somewhere…." Setting the bottle down, in his already overflowing cart Marshall couldn't help but notice, he rummaged in his pockets for a moment before pulling out is wallet, and rather proudly presenting the marshal with his state-issued ID. Which proclaimed him to be 21 years of age, born July 4th…Well the year was slightly blurred, but you get the idea. Looking up at the grinning young man, he looked back at the ID, looked back at Alfred, cocked his head to one side and squinted. Okay, maybe he could see it now. Shrugging, he didn't say anything more about the whisky, though he still had a bad feeling about it. Seeing the look on his face, the other male laughed.

"Don't worry, I don't get weird when I drink, not like my brother Arthur. Oh man, if ever there was someone who should be outlawed from ever setting foot in a bar, it's him."

Raising his eyebrows in his best 'I'm intrigued, go on' face, he listened as America rambled on about just how weird his brother got when he was 'plastered' and just how many times his little brother had had to 'drag his drunk ass home'. He seemed rather cheerful about the whole thing, going on to say as he scanned all of his rather gratuitous amount of groceries that he didn't really mind, since his brother seemed to say some 'really interesting stuff when he was drunk', and just the way he said it had the inspector feeling for this man he'd never met, because he felt sure that some rather juicy blackmail material had come about from said escapades.

Just as he opened his mouth to ask how exactly he planned to pay for such a large amount of purchases, America whipped out a credit card, seemingly from nowhere, swiped it, and that was that, done pretty as you please. Raising his eyebrows, but again refraining from comment, though he was definitely going to have Mary grill him about where he'd gotten an apparently unlimited bank account later when they switched shifts, he followed Alfred out to his, meaning Marshall's, car and helped him load his purchases into the thankfully roomy trunk.

It was getting close to dusk when they pulled into his new witness's temporary lodging, which didn't look quite so intimidating bathed in the glow of the setting sun without the direct sunlight reflecting off it to blind whoever happened to be looking at it directly. After helping unload and carry the many plastic bags into the glass and marble mansion, Marshall got ready to leave and change places with his partner. Personally, he was looking forward to getting to bed. Although they hadn't done much else except go to McDonald's for lunch and go to Wal-Mart, Marshall still found himself yawning; being around the hyperactive younger man took a lot out of you.

When someone knocked at the door scarcely ten minutes later, the marshal wasn't worried; it was probably just Mary. Later, he would blame it on his exhaustion and consequential loss of focus that made him open the door without checking through the peep-hole first. Because it wasn't Mary standing on the other side, instead it was a young blonde man Marshall had never seen before, though he looked vaguely familiar. He stood there on the doorstep in the rapidly vanishing light, clutching what looked like a white stuffed bear to his chest and looking up at the taller man through dark blonde bangs with something akin to worry on his face.

He was obviously dressed for much colder weather in a beige, fur-lined coat, dark brown pants and even darker boots to match. His eyes were oddly violet-blue in color, hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses, and his face was so familiar…Why couldn't he place it? Everything about the man, from his stance to the expression on his face seemed to whisper 'Don't look at me' so quietly, that anyone who walked past him on the street, or indeed looked right at him would look past him so completely it was like he wasn't even there in the first place. This should have set off warning bells for Marshall: in his line of work, anyone who was that good at remaining invisible had to be hiding something, but no bells were rung. He just looked so harmless it was impossible to think him dangerous in anyway.

The stranger seemed to be working up the courage to ask him something, but Alfred beat him to it. Marshall hadn't even noticed that he'd come up next to him and had been watching the stranger as closely as Marshall had, a frown on his face like he'd been trying to remember something important.

Finally it clicked, and America's mouth fell open.

"Matty, is that you? What're you doing here?"


	5. Bang, Bang

Hey guys! Sorry it took so long, I've been outta town these last two weeks. (: I won't take to much of your time, but please read the freakishly long AN at the bottom.

Warnings: None. Slight FACE refrences.

Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has reviewed/alerted/favorited this story. You guys are literally made of awesome! :D I read every review and it makes me squee with delight everyime I do!

By the way, since it's officially 1:15 AM where I live...*Throws confetti* Happy brithday Alfred!

Enjoy!

((Edited as of July 4, 2010: Changed America's age, because I am an idiot and got it wrong. -_-U Thank you Midsummer's Nights Dream!))

* * *

While Marshall remained outside to call Mary and do a precautionary perimeter sweep, America led his twin through the confusing twists and turns of his humble abode to the kitchen, which was still crammed with half-unpacked Wal-Mart bags, and over to a stool set up next to a weirdly positioned jutting part of the counter, obviously meant to be used as a make-shift bar area.

Matthew shook his head sadly as he stepped over what felt like the hundredth empty plastic bag his brother had simply thrown on the ground as he finished with it, wondering how the other ever managed to look after himself on his own. Sure, the president helped, but there was only so much one could do when faced with an unshakeable personality like Alfred's.

Not really listening to America's customary chatter, Canada looked him over critically for a moment before remarking flatly, "Well, you certainly don't _look_ dead or 'lying in a gutter somewhere' as _Maman _so insisted you would be." Flinching in reflex as America whirled around to gape at him, he couldn't help but sigh at his brother's foolish forgetfulness.

"Yes of course England called me. The G20 is in two months and you're supposed to host it, or have you forgotten? When he couldn't get you on your phone he called your government, when they refused to tell him anything he got worried so he called me, once he took the time to remember who I was and why my name was in his address book. Really Alfred, you couldn't have bothered to tell _anyone _that you were on the lam?"

He rolled his eyes. "I am not 'on the lam' you dork. I'm in witness protection." Oops. Was that supposed to be a secret?

Violet-blue eyes flew wide at that. *"What? You're in witness protection? _Mon Dieu, _what have you done now?"

"See! See! Right there is why I didn't call ya'll! Why does everyone immediately assume it's my fault?" Indignant pout.

Narrow-eyed glare. "Don't even try bro. You and I both know the reason you didn't notify anyone is because you simply forgot."

Blinding smile. "Well, there's that."

Sighing as he hung his head in his hands, Matthew asked the universe in general. "Why me?"

Kumajiro chose that moment to wake-up and look sleepily up at the blonde nation who still held him.

"Who're you?

Unnoticed by the two siblings, inspector Mann had reentered through the back door (there's a back door to this place?) and stood just out of sight, listening. There didn't seem to be anything overly odd about the conversation, then, he had only caught the end of it, but in all his years in WITSEC he had never heard of a witness _forgetting _to come up with a cover story and tell friends and family that he would be moving/out of town for awhile, read: forever. With such a strict time-limit on how long the young man would be in the program, surely he should have remembered? Was he honestly that scatterbrained? If the stranger's reaction was anything to go by, he obviously did such things a lot. For a moment he thought he heard a third voice, but when he walked in a few seconds later, they were alone in the kitchen.

Just his witness, the as-yet-unnamed stranger, him, and that stuffed bear the young man had arrived with still hanging from his arms.

* * *

As with his brother the day before, Mary regarded Matthew Williams with the same unblinking intensity of a cat waiting for the mouse to make the wrong move and dart into waiting claws; the young man was trying desperately not to fidget under her unwavering stare, but he wasn't completely succeeding. She had to give it to him though; she knew some grown, bearded, muscled, 'I'm a BAMF' men who had run screaming from the room by now. Alfred Jones was the only person she could think of in the history of the Mary Shannon Fish Eye (circa 1978) who hadn't reacted in any way at all. That took balls. Or overwhelming stupidity. Either one.

She had been less than happy to get a call from her partner that they had a potential security breach already, but once she'd gotten to the house and gotten a good look at the kid, she had to agree with Marshall's first impression: he looked about as threatening as a houseplant. After actually having been introduced to him, she didn't detect a whiff of anything that would change this assumption anytime soon.

Looking at them now, sitting side-by-side in the opposite booth at the same Denny's she'd been in the day before, it was obvious the two were twins. Painfully obvious.

Same hair color, though Matthew's was wavy where Alfred's was straight, same glasses, although their eye color was slightly different, same face, though the Trademark Grin Alfred wore was decidedly less sheepish than his brother's, they were even the same height for God's sake! It was admittedly weird that they both had differing last names, which she had asked about almost before Alfred had gotten finished explaining who the new arrival was. Matthew had just looked at the ground while Alfred had grinned.

"Oh you know. Divorces can be messy."

So messy that apparently one of their parents had moved with the younger twin to Ontario while the other had stayed with older sibling in DC. Weird, but not unheard of. Sketchy, but for now her suspicions went unfounded. Things didn't add up, and if there was anything Mary hated more than day old coffee, overly-perky waitresses, and running out of gas on the highway already late for work, it was things that didn't add up. Thankfully, Marshall interrupted just as she opened her mouth and rip the pair a collective new one.

"So, you came to Albuquerque to find your brother and make sure he was okay, I understand that. Makes perfect sense. What I still fail to comprehend is how you knew where to find him at all. We don't mean to pry, but if there's a security breach, your brother may have to be moved."

America sat up fast at that, meaning to tell him where he could stuff it when Canada quickly intervened. "W-Well, when our…brother called me saying he couldn't get hold of Alfred, I called him house as too, just to be sure. Arthur's so impatient, he probably didn't wait to listen to the message after the phone stopped ringing, on it Alfred explained that he'd be out of town for awhile and he'd be staying somewhere in New Mex-" He was cut off by his brother grabbing hold of his errant curl/cowlick and yanked hard to get him to shut up. He yelped, swearing in French, but the damage was done. The look his two babysitters were giving him now was part bemused disbelief (Marshall), part shocked outrage (Mary).

"You-You-Y-I can't believe-No, you know what? I can believe it. I've known you for barely two days and already I know this is just the kind of stupid, selfish-"

She couldn't continue without throttling someone. A certain blonde, hyper, pain-in-the-neck preferably. He didn't even try to defend himself, just looked at her evenly with those damned baby-blues of his and said simply. "I wasn't going to make my brothers worry for no reason, and my boss's temp said I wasn't allowed to call them because it would be too risky. So when I went home to pack, I changed by phone's message. What else was I supposed to do?"

Now three pairs of eyes were staring at him in mute shock. What? Was it that surprising that he could remember he had people who would worry if he just dropped off the face a the earth? Give him some credit. He was 234 years old after all. He wasn't a child.

Mary stood abruptly, turning to leave, too pissed off and confused to stay. Of course now he would have to be moved to another, more secure location, somewhere far, far away and she was…she wanted to be delighted. She couldn't be. Couldn't blame the kid for wanting his friends and family to know he was okay. That was understandable, but he had put himself in danger! Didn't he even care what happened to him? There was an entire laundry list of wanted, dangerous people who wanted his head on a platter, yet he didn't even seem fazed. What was _wrong _with this kid? Her thoughts a variable melting pot of mixed emotions, she barely checked to make sure the way was clear before she stepped out into the street. Rubbing her forehead tiredly, she reached in her pocket for her phone, intending to call Stan and let him know what had happened.

She never made it that far.

"Mary!"

Someone yelling her name made her turn, but not fast enough to see or stop the blonde blur that slammed into her, carrying her off her feet and onto the pavement.

It wasn't until her shoulder made contact with the ground that she heard the shots.

* * *

Maman- Mom/Mother

Mon Dieu- My God

I know, I know, cliffhanger! I'm afraid I'm developing something like an affinity for them, though I have no idea if that's how you spell that word. Too tired (lazy) to look it up. They're so much more fun to write then they are to read, I know, but I'll work on it. (:

Long AN of Doom: Okay, so the rest of this month don't be expecting many, if any, updates. I've got massive summer homework to do, and I want to try and get it all done this month so that my August is free to wile away as I wish. (: But have no fear! I shall return as soon as I am able, though it will most likely not be until the very end of this month, or indeed the next before my brain recovers from actually having to work after a month of just letting it do whatever it wants. I am so sorry guys, I really am. I know how much it sucks waiting for people to update, but unfortuantely, Real Life comes first. Suck. But please, don't let this deter you from reviewing, because truly I love reading them. They make me very happy. I won't say they keep me writing, but they certainly are a very large part of it. Who wants to write a story no one is reading?

Thank you everyone for understanding and I will return as soon as I can!


	6. Amerika

Hello everyone, and my greatest apologies for this chapter taking so long! I'm a terrible procrastinator, I know, but here it is! I'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter, since it seems too filler-esque to me, but, the plot must go on! What little of one there is anyway.

Thank you to anyone and everyone who has reviewed/alerted/favorited this story so far, I never expected so many people to actually care about this story, and it makes me very happy, not to mention motivates me to keep writing when you do.

Warnings: Mary's dirty mouth, um...That's it? VAQUE hints of slash in this chapter, and I mean VAGUE, but for those of you who like that sort of thing, and as a warning to those of you who don't, do not be discouraged! There is quite a bit more over the horizon. (:

Disclaimer: Not mine. Please don't sue.

Enjoy the chapter and please read the AN at the bottom.

* * *

The first thing her fuzzy mind registered was pain. The entire right side of her body hurt, and her jaw felt like it was on fire, but her right thigh felt numb. For some reason she couldn't really grasp at the moment, it seemed like she should hurt a lot more than that. After all, the last time she'd gone shot, it'd felt like all the blood in her veins had turned to molten lead, each traitorous pump of her heart pushing the pain further and deeper into her bones-And her conscious mind finally snapped into focus. She'd been shot at. Even more importantly, her _witness _had been shot at as well. He'd gotten in the way, tried to save her. Which was ridiculous since that was her job after all.

Cracking her eyes open, she turned her head, intending to find her charge and make sure he wasn't hurt, and if he wasn't, yell at him for awhile and possibly shake him so he wouldn't do something so stupid ever again. And if he was hurt, well, then she would just have to wait and yell at him later. It never crossed her mind that there might not be a later.

It wasn't hard to find him; he was crouched immediately to her left, scanning the street warily, as if he expected more bullets to fly at any moment. As if he could do something to stop them if they did. Something foolishly heroic like protect _her_ of all people. That fueled Mary's still rather muddled brain back into action and she made to sit up and release a tirade on the unsuspecting young man; she got about half-way there before she collapsed again, icy-hot pain shooting up her thigh, warning her not to try that again. She sucked in a breath, but did not cry out, though she did use the oxygen to growl some rather impressive swear words which left her panting in exertion.

"I wouldn't try moving if I were you."

The blonde marshal turned to glare up at Alfred who was looking down at her with an expression caught somewhere between sheepishness and amusement. Like a puppy that'd done something wrong and expected a chewing out, but no severe reprimand. Well, she'd solve that little misconception right quick.

"What the HELL, do you think you were doing you-Son of a bitch!"

She hissed the last part of her sentence as Alfred moved out of her line of sight, which was limited to 'somewhere over _there_', and did something with her right leg that made the stabbing pain worse, if possible.

"Well now, I know you're mad that I didn't sit and stay like you wanted me too, but I think insulting my parents may be a bit much. I did just save your life you know." Yep. Definitely amused now.

"That's not the point! You were supposed to 'sit and stay' because that's what witnesses do! They're not supposed to intentionally throw themselves into the paths of the people who want them dead, seeing as that's kind of counter productive."

Oh that was not a chuckle she just heard. She'd kill him. Once she could move without pain that was. For now she settled for glaring impotently at the sky, hissing in pain when another careful movement made the pain in her leg grow roots and dig in deeper.

"No worries. Looks like it just grazed you. Barely though. If you'd been standing still when this hit you it'd have punctured your carotid artery." He said it calmly, professionally, like he'd seen a million bullet wounds in his time.

She struggled up onto her elbows and stared at him with something akin to shock.

"And how, exactly, do you know that?"

Alfred just grinned at her.

By the time the ambulance arrived, the shooters were long gone, and Mary knew from experience that although the street had been filled with people to get statements from, barely a quarter of them would be reliable, if that. The last thing she saw before the ambulance doors slammed closed was the two blondes-the twins-standing just outside them. The other one-what was his name again?-merely fussed over his brother and seemed to be warning him to 'be more careful in the next time' and to 'not scare him like that'. What, did this happen a lot around him? From the way her charge simply laughed off his twin's advice, Mary got the feeling much worse things had happened around him before, and he expected them to continue to do so in the future.

* * *

Mary ended up not having to have surgery, thankfully. But she was going to have to stay in the hospital overnight 'for observation'. Well, technically she was supposed to stay for two to three days, which in Mary-Speak translated to 'as soon as she could steal a wheelchair and get the heck outta dodge'. Marshall and the boys had come by to check up on her awhile ago, but she snapped and snarled in true Mary form and sent them packing not long after, but not until she had a rather interesting conversation with Alfred.

"Now, explain to me again why you decided not to let me do my job."

Curse that innocently confused expression he pulled off so well. "Wha'do ya mean?"

"Cut the crap, you know exactly what I mean. _We're_ supposed to be protecting _you_, so why the hell did you decide to come swooping to my rescue?" Biting sarcasm, she was just as good at it as he was at playing dumb, and he was pretty damn close to Oscar material at that.

He opened his mouth almost instantly, as if he'd heard similarly phrased questions before and had an answer already down pat for when the situation arose, but just as abruptly he seemed to switch gears and considered her question some more.

Shrug. "I dunno. It's just what I do."

Snort. "What, throw yourself into the path of speeding bullets on a daily basis?"

Grin. "Well, I wouldn't say a daily basis, but the situation has come about before."

Roll of her eyes. "So first you're a doctor, not you're a professional bodyguard, what's next, nuclear engineer?"

For some reason, that set him off on a fit of laughter that lasted at least three minutes. She didn't have a clock or a stop-watch readily available, but that's about how much time it usually took for her Ticked-Off-O-Meter to reach the red zone. Just as things were reaching critical, he finally got control of himself and grinned at her again in that infuriatingly infectious way of his.

"Nah, nothing like that. More like a combination of all three, but not at the same time. But I can tell you one thing-"

Here he leaned in close like he was about to share a secret with her, and she spared a thought to wonder how it always felt like she was magically back in grade school around this kid.

With his face completely serious he said. "I. Am bullet proof." A grin at her flabbergasted expression, before he continued. "And you, are not. So shut up and be happy you're not dead. Bye!" And with that, he practically skipped from the room.

That settled it. She was going to throttle him.

* * *

_The door put up no resistance when he turned the handle, instead swinging open on irritatingly creaky hinges that sounded like they hadn't been oiled in millennium, to reveal a suitably empty entrance hall leading into stereotypically creepy darkness, the light from the door not penetrating more than a few feet into the room. It was all his worst and most clichéd horror movie nightmares come to life._

_Still, being the brave soul that he was, America stepped into the weirdly silent mansion, letting the heavy wooden door swing shut behind him with a satisfying and completely expected crack. Didn't stop him leaping half a foot in the air anyway. He looked around him, already on the defensive, expecting any second to be faced with the childish giggles and brittle smile of his 'arch-nemesis'. _

_When Russia failed to materialize from the shadows as America had expected he would, he started to get a little bit worried._

_When he began the long trek down the hallway towards the depths of the house and didn't encounter anyone in any of the numerous rooms he passed, he started to get honestly concerned. He picked up his pace slightly._

_When he rounded yet another corner in this seemingly never-ending maze of corridors and saw a door open at the end of yet another hallway, a valiantly flickering glow seeping between the crack and called out, expecting an answer, and not receiving one, not even when he repeated his hails twice more, the concern suddenly burst into full-blown panic. He started to run._

America jerked awake, sitting up in bed and throwing his bedding helter-skelter across the room as he did so. Immediately, he dropped his head into his hands, still shivering from the after effects of the dream, or was it a memory?

Sigh. "Deadgummit. Same freakin' thing every time."

Giggle. "Privyet_ Amerika."_

He swore he felt his heart stop dead in his chest for a full twenty seconds before picking up again in triple-time. He snapped his head to the left, barely able to make out a figure sitting in the chair he had pushed against the wall earlier in the day so Mattie could have somewhere to sit while they talked. America couldn't see the weirdly innocent smile he knew would be on his face, could barely see the man at all, more just an indistinct vaguely Russia-shaped, tan blob somewhere to the side, but he knew the smile would be there. Just as he also knew it would be a fake one.

A childishly high-pitched voice came again from the direction he was almost completely sure the taller nation was sitting.

"Tell me _Amerika_, what was your dream about?"

* * *

Privyet- Greetings

Hee! Weren't expecting that were you? Or at least I hope not, since I wasn't expecting it either.

A/N: I forget the name of the reviewer who pointed this out, but some of you may have noticed the fact that through-out the course of a chapter, I have a tendency to jump between past and present tense, and for this I am very sorry. It is a completely unconcious thing that I do, and I hope not too many people are annoyed by it. I honestly never notice when it happens, and I don't have a beta to point it out when I do. To those of you have noticed and have been bothered by it, I do plan to revise this story and re-upload it, but not until AFTER I have completed the entire thing, since this project originally stemmed from my desire to prove to myself that I could see a chapter fic through to it's completion. To those of you who haven't noticed and/or are not bothered by it, thank you all the same for putting up with me. (:

Reviews make me very happy, just so you know. -hint, hint, nudge, nudge- ;)


	7. Coffee

Oh my goodness, I am SO sorry for how long this took! I won't go into details but pretty much all you need to know is: Anime conventions rock, school does not. In any way, shape, or form.

Again, sorry for the kind of filler-y chapter, but for you Cold War pairing fans, here's a little instant gratification to make up for it. (: For all you who actually read this for, ya know, THE PLOT, it does move along a little bit, but not much. Promise next one will be more plot-moving-along-y but it'll probably take a bit for me to get it written.

Warnings: Definite mentions of slash and quite a few big swear words, but other than that, we're good.

Enjoy!

* * *

America stumbled down the stairs, blindly flicking on every light as he went, not noticing or not caring that the taller nation following behind simply turned them all off again as he passed. America normally would've been more worried that his 'arch-nemesis' was currently walking less than a foot behind him and seriously invading his 'No Russia' zone as he did, but right now he had other things to worry about. Like the fact that his head was pounding out the national anthem inside his skull, the whispers of discontent were louder than they'd been in months, not to mention the fact it was ridiculous-early-o-clock and he needed coffee, like NOW. But worst of all….

What exactly was he gonna tell Mary?

Groan. "She's going to kill me."

"Who is?"

America jumped. Crap. Right. Big creepy Russian in his kitchen. How had he forgotten about that? More importantly….

"What're you even doing here Russia?"

Giggle. "Visiting you of course!"

America shot him a baleful look out of one eye as he turned on the light and headed for the coffee maker. He didn't really believe Russia had come all the way from his house just to visit him, so why in the heck was he here? The blonde wracked his brain for an answer, some important conference or meeting he had forgotten, but either there wasn't one, or his mind was still too preoccupied with his lack of sleep or more likely with the ten course band currently beating out a rhythm between his ears. Dammit! What was the date? Maybe if he could get hold of a paper he could figure out why his people were so pissed. Come to think of it, his boss hadn't called him since this whole thing started. America was starting to feel woefully out of the loop.

Ignoring the other country for the moment, America set to work making a pot of coffee black enough to take the paint off a wall built sometime before the '20s. He couldn't seem to drink it any other way ever since the last World War, having gotten used to Iggy's ability to take even a good ol' cup a joe and turn it into roofing tar. Without thinking he got out two newly-bought mugs from the freshly-stocked cupboard. Not that he was even sure Russia drank coffee, but whatever. Habit.

Inhaling the fortifying smell of coffee percolating, he took a deep breath and turned with purpose back to Russia, only to find the taller man staring at him with those violet eyes and that disturbing smile. Like a creeper. Huffing out a breath in annoyance, mostly at himself for not being used to the other's Let's-Put-the-American-Off-Balance tactics yet, he met those purple eyes squarely with his bespectacled blue ones.

"Okay so, what are you doing here again? Really? Is there a point?"

"Well, when one simply drops off of the face of the Earth, and forget to tell anyone where they're going, or indeed, when they're going to get back, it makes others worry."

Scoff. "Gee, didn't know you cared."

Smile. "Oh, I don't. But eventually, once England had exhausted all his other resources, he called me and asked if I 'of all people' knew where you had gone."

Gape. "Wha-? But-but, he called Canada! Mattie said he told him he knew where I was and was gonna come find me!"

Head tilt. "Who?"

America groaned and mentally cursed his brother's uncanny ability to remain invisible to people he's known for a century, face-palming as he turned back around to the counter and pour two steaming mugs of caffeine-in-a-cup, plopping one down in front of Russia before he took a gulp of his own, watching as the other peered curiously into the cup, inspecting its contents cautiously.

Snort. "It's _fine_. Maybe not the best tasting, but perfectly fine, whadd'ya think I did? Poison it?"

Cheerfully psychotic grin. "Oh no! You are, of course, a fool, but even I do not think you would be so stupid as to do something like that."

America glared, not the least bit intimidated in the face of what had sent other people and nations alike scurrying in terror. Absent-mindedly he took another sip of his mug, strangely triumphant when Russia, once he had deemed the cup unthreatening in everyway, finally took a careful sip. He didn't immediately spit it back out as America had seen France and even Canada do on several occasions when faced with his coffee-o-death, though he did wince before gingerly set it back on the bar. It didn't escape the younger nation's gleeful notice that he did not pick it back up again.

"Okay, so, if you're here for Iggy, obviously you can see I'm fine-"

"Indeed."

America paused, not liking the way Russia had said _that _at all. Narrowing his now sleep-cleared eyes at Russia's rather amused smile, he asked what he felt was a rather legitimate question:

"Alright, now, I know you're a creeper and all, but why do you keep looking at me like that?"

"I was merely enjoying the show."

"Eh-?"

He froze when he realized, rather belatedly, that when the weather was really warm, such as it is in say, New Mexico, what exactly it was he slept in. Or rather, what he didn't. He'd been carrying out a conversation with The Villain, in his_ underwear_. He felt his face heat up in mortification, but instead of freaking, he very calmly set down his half-empty cup on the counter, before, still calmly, walking past Russia, meaning to go up to his room and at least put some pants on or something. He made it perhaps a handful of inches past the other nation when a grip of ice closed around his bicep and jerked him back.

He snarled, turning his head to snap at Russia and ask him what the fuck he thought was doing when abruptly Russia reached out and traced one freezing fingertip over a faded scar on America's collar-bone. Alfred shivered-from the fact that Ivan's body-temperature was freakishly low, mind you, NOT for any other reason, thank you very much-and held still, not getting where this was going.

"What is this one from?"

He asked it so quietly, semi-permanent smile gone, that Alfred's mind stalled and he answered without thinking again.

"Revolution. I think that one might've been Bunker Hill."

Ivan nodded thoughtfully, releasing him without another word, allowing Alfred to escape up the stairs and back into his room. He wasn't fleeing mind you, because heroes don't do that, he just, uh….

Dammit. Fine. He was fleeing. Shut up.

* * *

Mary was at the absolute end of her rope. Or maybe more accurately, the Head of the Federal Witness Protection's rope since if Inspector Shannon didn't get some answers and fast, she was going to shoot him. Shoot him dead. Like with bullets and everything. She'd take the jail time. Savor it even, because there was no way prison was as bad as this, this...Runaround!

She must have been transferred all of six times in the last hour, and by the time she finally got the Assistant Head's secretary on the phone, she was ready to jump up and dance the Macarena out of sheer joy. But did she get to speak to the Head of the Marshall Service after all of that? Hell no. All she got was a whiny female voice, in a tone that clearly illustrated how much she would rather be 'Elsewhere', telling her that the Head of the Marshall Service was 'unavailable to take her call at this time. -click!-"

That's it. Somebody was dying today. Maybe a certain hyperactive, blonde, pain-in-the-neck, though she wasn't going to name names. She must've ranted for at least twenty minutes before Marshal walked in, efficiently distracting Mary with a cup of hot coffee and a bag of donuts so Stan could make his escape.

Angry chomp of bagel. "Who the Hell do they think they are, making me go in circles like that!"

Theatrical sigh. "Our overlords, while we are all but poor villagers, scraping out a living in the shadow of their great color-collated empire."

Half-hearted glare. "Don't make me smile. I wanna stay mad. Keeps me warm at night."

"And far be it from me to divert the river of your all-consuming rage into a more creative source. Such as work."

"Ugh. You said the 'W' word."

Thankfully Mary was in, if not a good mood per say, at least a less homicidal mood when Alfred bounced through the door, otherwise he probably would've been full of holes before he could needlessly announce his presence with his standard chipper greeting. She merely growled and took another unnecessarily violent bite of her breakfast as Marshal answered with a rather light-hearted greeting of his own. Hey at least he was still breathing and her clip was still full. That was progress as far as she was concerned.

"So Mary, I may have a little problem…"

Urge to kill rising.

"Why am I not surprised? What is it, another long-lost twin you pulled outta the woodwork?"

Confusion. "Huh? Who-? Oh, Mattie! Right. Nah, nothing like that this time. Just an old, um, friend who, ah, got worried about me and came down to see if I was alright."

Urge to kill reaching dangerous levels.

"What part of 'confidentiality agreement' to you not get? I know they're big words, but if you sound them out-"

Laugh. "Sorry Mary, I wasn't really expecting it either. I was just gonna send him packing once he stayed for a while and figured out I was okay, in fact I even called the airport and there's a plane leaving for Moscow within the hour, but-"

"Moscow!"

"Yeah. Anyway, he wouldn't leave `till I explained the situation (pronounced sit-she-ay-shon), and after that he insisted on meeting the people who had (air quotes) 'the patience to put up with' me, said they had ta be saints or summin', so I brought him by-"

Resisting urge to reach for holster becoming extremely difficult.

"You brought him. Here."

"Uh-huh, so's I figured if you just meet him, he'll go away, all quick-like. Whaddo ya say?" Grin.

Fortunately for all parties involved, Marshal stepped in before any blood could be shed.

"We'd love to meet him. Why don't you go get him, and we'll wait here." And give Mary time to simmer down.

"Nah, thas okay, he's right outside." Turning to call over one shoulder. "Hey! R-…Ivan, get in here!"

Both detectives turned expectantly towards the door, unaware how terribly unprepared they would be for what would step through it.

* * *

Poor fools. XD

Again, reviews are like cupcakes to me, they create instant happiness! And I would like to thank all have reviewed and what have you so far, I really appreciate it. (:

This one had a few more historically-signifigant things, as well as a couple more (fail) jokes that you would have to watch APH to get, though I don't think anyone is reading this who hasn't seen APH, and if there are, go watch it! Immediately! For it promotes world peace, makes you abnormally patriotic, and can apparently be viewed as 'a crime against humanity', at least accourding to the Korean government. What more could you ask for? (:

((Quick note: America's headache is from the anniversary of 9/11, since that's when I started writing this chapter. Didn't get it uploaded in time, sorry! Hope that clears up any confusion!))

Review please!


	8. Mr Braginski

I am so. very. sorry! I can't believe this took so long! Please forgive the ENTREMELY late update. Life kinda took me for a ride for awhile, but I'm back now. Sorta.

But the good news is since I've been iced in the last three days with no school, I finally got off my lazy butt and wrote this chapter. So um...I love you all? :D

Warnings: Mary's bad mouth, some rather more blatant GAY in this chapter so y'all might wanna turn away if it offends you, though it really isn't bad. Just unbearably fluffy because I couldn't help myself.

And guess what? I finally know what the hell I'm gonna do with this story, so the next chapter should be filled to the brim with plot and also some rather more, shall we say 'charged' atmosphere between our boys next time? ;)

Thanks for sticking with me through this and as always:

Enjoy!

* * *

Mary hated not knowing things. Almost as much as she hated cold coffee, stale donuts, and her friends and family on occasion; but not knowing things? Definitely high up there on the list. In fact, Mary hated not knowing things to such an extreme degree that some might call it an obsessive compulsive disorder. Some people couldn't stop cleaning, some people couldn't enter a room without knocking every wall six time or whatever, and Mary; Mary couldn't stand not knowing what the _hell _was going on. It made her twitchy.

So when she suddenly finds a completely off-the-books witness dumped into her lap, albeit one with a sunny disposition and a mile-a-minute mouth, and a penchant for pulling long-lost relatives and 'acquaintances' from _oceans away _out of bumblefuck nowhere, with no previous association with apparently _anyone, _like he was just dropped in a cornfield on day, it stands to reason that a person as fond of knowing every last detail, about absolutely everything, about every person under her protection, would be a little bit peeved to know _absolutely_. _Nothing_. _About_ them.

Long story short, when Alfred had first shown up in her office this morning, she had been irritated. When he'd announced that he'd pulled yet another person out of the clear blue sky, and gosh darn wouldn't it just be swell if his new marshals got to meet `em, she'd come close to blowing a gasket. But it was alright. She'd kept her cool and not riddled the beaming blonde man with holes, though it had been a close thing. She was fine. She was cool. She had decided to be completely zen about the whole thing. _Ommmm….._

And then the man had walked through the door. And everything went to hell in a hand-basket.

Sitting across from the (tall) man, Mary would have been hard-pressed to actually tell you what it was about him that set her teeth on edge. Maybe it was his hair, which was a shade of, what blonde, gray, white, that she'd never seen on anyone under the age of sixty. Or perhaps his eyes, which she had finally decided had to be contacts because it was simply impossible for anyone to naturally have eyes that insane shade of violet. There was just no way. It could have been the fact that, despite his baby face, which was only barely set off by his rather prominent nose, he was built like brick house, as was obvious by the too small black turtle-neck he was wearing. He was also wearing a scarf. In 90 degree weather. The hell?

Or, just maybe, to go out on a limb, it could have been the fact that he hadn't stopped smiling. The. Entire. Time. Which, in her book, made him creepy as fuck. Since he'd first walked in (smiling) and it had become very obvious that whatever the two marshals had been expecting given their new charges previous track record with pulling people out of the woodwork, a six-feet-and-change (had she mentioned he was tall?), smiling, blonde (?), Russian man with a gratingly polite streak a mile wide certainly was not it. Maybe it was the politeness thing. Even though he'd seemed perfectly sincere when he'd introduced himself to them and said it was a pleasure to meet someone 'with enough patience to deal with Amerika for extended periods of time', all said in perfect only faintly accented English, it had made Mary's internal warning alarms go berserk.

A glance at her partner made her realize it wasn't just her; this man, Ivan Braginski, made Marshall just as nervous as he made her. That did not make her feel better. She'd kinda been hoping her over-active danger sense had been just that. Over-reacting. Apparently not. Joy. Her witness's voice abruptly jolted her out of her musings.

"Okay, so, now that we've all met and everything's hunky-dory, can we get outta here? Cause after all R-….Ivan here does have a plane to catch."

"Ah, but dear Amerika, I already told you I was not leaving yet."

Whine. "But _why_?"

Bright and yet completely fake smile. "Because I am having fun. You are entertaining when you are upset, Дa?"

Mary was starting to get a headache. This was the weirdest, friendship, rivalry, realtionship, whatever the hell it was, that she'd ever been privy too, and she kind of just wanted the world to go away for a while so she could get some sleep, or, barring that, at least let het pop a few more pain pills to take the sting off of her healing bullet would. Was that so much to ask?

Yes it was as Mary quickly found out after she and Marshall excused themselves from the glass-walled meeting area to have a powwow with Stan. There they found out that this was bad. Very bad. Which they already knew. Twins were one thing, but Russian nationals coming all the way around the world to check on the welfare of one kid? Something was definitely Up. And Stan wanted them, or specifically Mary, to find out what it was that was Up. Fun times.

So she dutifully, though not without some muttered swearing, set off for the lobby, since her witness and his 'guest' had seen fit to wander off. She swore sometimes it was like herding cats around here.

* * *

"Why did you want to come here Amerika? The scary marshal lady probably wanted us to stay put."

"I don't care, she can be mad if she wants. I just couldn't sit in that little glass box anymore, it was giving me the creeps."

"Ah yes, your irrational fear of enclosed spaces. I remember now."

"Shut up, 's completely rational. And ya didn't have to follow me ya know. You coulda stayed behind."

"But if I had done that, I have a feeling that Miss Shannon might have attempted to eat me for lunch. She did not seem to like me much."

Snort. "Like you'd be scared of her. And she might've liked you a little better if you hadn't done that creepy smilin' thing the whole time. I'm startin' to get the feelin' you're doin' that on purpose, just to freak people out."

Giggle. "You are not very bright, Дa? Why would you presume to know why I do anything I decide to do?"

Yawn. "I'm pretty sure that didn't make sense but whatever. I'm plenty smart, jus' tired…."

Inquisitive head tilt. "Tired? Why?"

Jaw-cracking yawn. "Well I dunno. Maybe cause I was woken up at way-too-freakin-early o'clock cause _somebody_ was just dyin' to know if I'd finally kicked the bucket, and couldn't wait for a later flight when they knew perfectly well time they'd be getting here, don't even try to lie to me about that one buster"

"Well then, if you are tired, милый, than you should sleep."

"Right, I'll just doze off right here in this uncomfortable plastic chair. Why didn't I think of that?"

"That brings us back to the topic of you intelligence, which I find myself questioning very often."

"Now listen here you…."

* * *

She'd lost them. How in the seven hells had she managed that? It's not like they could've gotten far, they'd only turned their backs on them for five minutes! At the same time, she had to remind herself that this was Alfred F. Jones she was talking about. He might've been half way to either border by now, knowing his certain brand of tenacity. Once set on a course, she doubted it could be swayed for any reason. The thought was a terrifying one, made all the more so by the fact that she had thought it with a certain weary affection she usually reserved for Brandi.

This was bad. Deadgummit, you weren't supposed to get attached to witnesses! Especially not witnesses you've only known for a grand total of three days! Something must be wrong with her. She was almost kind of glad Marshall wasn't there to read her thoughts in that irritatingly Marshall-esque way of his and quip that he'd personally thought that for years. Almost, since having someone to share her pain would've been distracting in the very least. But no, Marshall had been called back by Stan who'd apparently received some crazy-high security clearance he'd been trying for since he'd found out about their mysterious new witness and wanted the other inspector's opinion on something he'd learned. That fact that they may soon know something more than what they currently did about the kid (read: no. thing.), would be the only thing that kept her from wringing his skinny neck on sight. Hopefully.

Since she'd already check most of the first floor, she headed back up to the second, thinking maybe the kid had wandered off to 'catch up' with his guest and just walked around the corner where elevators were without bothering to go downstairs. Make sense. Although when she remembered the atmosphere in the room with the two of them earlier, she got the feeling that finding them sooner rather than later would be a really good idea if she wanted to prevent any bloodshed. Such a good idea in fact that she was practically sprinting through the halls by the time she finally swung around the edge of the wall dividing their office from the rest of the currently unrented building. What she saw stopped her in her tracks and almost made her stop breathing as well.

There was a large and completely unnecessary potted plant between her and the little sitting area that curved off from the rest of the hallway, and just beyond the leaves she could see her witness sitting with his guest against the far wall. Well, she said sitting, but what she really meant was sleeping. With his head on the taller man's shoulder. And when she said sleeping, she meant dead to the world kind of asleep. Her gaze sharpened as she noticed the dark bags under his eyes and the unreleased tension she hadn't even been aware of until it was gone. Was he sick? Or getting that way? Why hadn't she noticed? Guilt twisted her insides. Sure the kid could be a little hard to handle sometimes, but she should've noticed instantly that something was wrong with her charge, regardless of whatever roller-coaster he set her emotions on.

Mary was brought back to the scene before her as Ivan shifted slightly, and for a moment she thought he'd noticed her presence and was going to wake Alfred up so he could face her wrath like a man. But that was not the case, as he hadn't seemed to notice her at all. Indeed it looked to her as though a tornado could have blown through the room and he would've been none the wiser, so focused was his attention on the slighter male. His smile, which she would have though permanent, was gone, and he looked older without it, though not in a bad way, just less like he was trying to be something he wasn't; and his disconcertingly purple eyes were locked on Alfred's face, a mere handful of inches from his own. She watched as one pale hand came up to brush a stray lock of wheat-colored hair from Alfred's face, watched as his lips slowly curved up into a small smile, although this one looked different from the others, more…truthful somehow. Like he was honestly happy about something for the first time in a while and-

Cheeks flaming, though she furiously told herself they had no right to be doing so, Inspector Shannon turned on one booted heel and slowly walked back the way she came, telling herself that of course she wasn't making an effort to be quiet so as to not disturb the scene going on behind her, because that would be girly and ridiculous. And, maybe kinda-sorta, true.

* * *

Rubbing her forehead with something very close to exhaustion, Mary reentered her office thinking that if _that _was the way of things, then her witness would be perfectly safe for now, and she really needed some coffee or she was going to pass out any second now. She was brought up short however at the mirror looks of shock on Stan and Marshall's faces when she glanced at them huddled around the only working, and therefore ancient, TV in the entire building. Flicking her sharp gaze between the two of them, she asked the only question she could, though she knew she was going to regret it later.

"What is it?"

Dumbfounded expressions still in place, the two motioned her over to where they were still standing in front of the snow-filled screen of the TV. She approached cautiously, cause she'd seen a horror movie like this once, and came to stand between the two men and, not without some trepidation, took the wordlessly proffered remote and hit 'rewind' then 'play'.

It wasn't too terribly long before she could vaguely feel her own face changing to match theirs as she watched the events unfolding on screen.

Oh. My. God.

* * *

Дa- Yes

милый- Dear

(Correct me if I'm wrong!)

Teh cliff-hangerz!11! (Okay I'll stop). I am sorry for that, but really, I have no idea what's going on anymore. I know where I want this story to go, but it's like trying to stay on a particularly angry horse with the bit between it's teeth and a distinct inclination to ignore all your attempts to bring it back under control. Ya just gotta hang on for all your worth and hope you get where you were trying to go in the first place. You just may have a few unplanned detours along the way.

So uh, review? If ya want? Ya know ya wanna. -eyebrow wiggle-


	9. Truth

Hello all! Wow, it's been so long hasn't it? I am so terribly sorry for the wait! Curse my incurable laziness rather than curse me, yes?

As I sat down to write this I was worried it would be filler-y, but it turned out the plot moved forward quite a lot! People who read this story for the plot, or whatever sembelance of one there may be, rejoice! And those of you who read for the romance and not so much for the plot, never fear! Though the pickings are slim, there is a tidbit for you as well. ;)

As always thank you to all of you who reviewed! It is honestly the only thing that keeps me writing sometimes. Especially all those brave souls who saw how long it had been since I updated and soldiered on regardless! It is thanks to your lovely reviews that I was guilt-tripped into writing this. And a certain amount of credit had to go to this beautiful country of mine, in honor of who's 'birthday' as it were, I finally sat down and forced myself to write this chapter. (: Happy 235th birthday America!

Warnings: Suprisingly light swearing in this (mostly since Mary doesn't talk much), and of course a few hints of male-male flirting going on, oh, and a very sappy flashback; also, forewarning: written at 1 o'clock in the morning and unbeta-ed, so please take pity on me for my horrendous proof-reading. That is all.

Enjoy and a happy Fourth of July to all my American brothers and sisters. (:

* * *

_Sometimes, when he closed his eyes and concentrated, casting his mind far back through the decades, he could still remember the look on his face. _

_Sky-blue eyes darkening with shock, boyishly handsome face twisting with hurt as he jerked his hand back from where it had rested on his shoulder. He had said something then, eyes pleading with him to answer, to tell him it wasn't true and that it was all a terribly cruel joke; that this wasn't happening. But he couldn't do that, because it was true, and it was happening. It made his heart ache to see him so upset, so horribly _lost _looking, but he forced his face not to show it, to not change in the slightest because if he allowed that he knew it would be over, he wouldn't have the strength of will to go on._

_So he made himself go on, to harden his heart and bury the emotions that sent it into turmoil. He snarled and snapped, cursed and insulted until the other man looked so utterly broken-hearted that he couldn't bear to look at him for a second more and couldn't he see how much this hurt him too? But no he couldn't of course he couldn't because he had trusted him, had been his friend, had never thought that something like this could happen. But it had and it would continue, but not if he stayed there, just _looking _at him like that with those accursed _eyes_. He could stand it no longer and so he said the one thing that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt would make the other leave and never look back._

* * *

When Alfred woke up, he was disoriented and rightly so, since he didn't recall falling asleep in the first place. Shifting slightly so he could lift his arm to rub his grainy eyes free of the sleep that still clung to them, he noted his head was leaned against something. Something soft and...ice-cold. America leapt up so fast it was like he'd been scalded and whirled around to stare in undisguised shock at the smiling nation still sitting in his chair.

Gape. "W-What-When-I-I didn't mean-I-I-"

Slight widening of smile. "As eloquent as ever I see. Did you sleep well?"

Glare. "And what the Hell is _that _supposed to mean? Why did you let me fall asleep in the first place? Let alone let me sleep on…on your…"

Head tilt. "You seem to have a rather dirty mind Amerika. Isn't that what друзья do? Lend one another their shoulder in times of need, as it were?"

Growl. "We are not, and have never been, _friends _Russia. Or have you forgotten that? Maybe you've started to go senile, what with you gettin' on up there in years and all."

Pout. "Now that is not fair, after all I am not so ancient as you would make me out to be."

Eye-roll. "Yeah right, you're practically falling apart right before my eyes. Next thing you know you'll be getting a paunch."

At this, the older nation stands, deciding that this is one insult that simply cannot stand. Plus, it is always so much fun to mess with the other man he simply can't help himself sometimes, really.

Takes a step closer. "Oh now I do not believe that is fair; after all, I did manage to fit into the clothes you had me wear, despite your insistence they would not fit. And they do not look bad on me, _da_?"

America, against his will, because it wasn't like he had been struggling to not do this very thing since they'd left his house, really' it was like some sort of Jedi Mind Trick, I swear!' let his eyes slide down to observe the black sweater the other is wearing. And it doesn't look bad on him, even if it is just a _bit _too small. He guess it doesn't look _that _bad on him. '_Not bad at all in fact_…' Alfred snaps his eyes back up to Ivan's face and flushes involuntarily at the smirk on his face.

Purr. "Now see, they do not look back at all."

Turns even redder. "N-no-" Cough. "I suppose they don't..."

America turns back around fast and sets off for the elevators, cursing furiously at himself at the other nation in his mind as he does. Damn, damn, damn, damn, _damn…._

"Come on. If Mary hasn't come to yell at us by now, she ain't going to. We might as well go back to _my _house until she comes to collect _me_ or whatever."

"Of course, dear Amerika."

"And wipe that look off your face before I do it for you."

* * *

Mary just sits and stares at the one-again snow-filled TV screen, unmoving as she has been for the last fifteen minutes. Marshall's pretty sure she hasn't even blinked in that amount of time either, which is more than a little disconcerting. He even contemplates once or twice going over to see if she's still breathing, but a cursory glance of her rising and falling chest assures him his partner is alright. Not that Marshall makes it a habit of staring at his partner's chest area mind you, it was meant as the concerned look of a friend to make sure she hadn't expired right before his very eyes. Of course that's all it was, don't be having any thoughts to the contrary now. _Right…._

Mary stares and stares and stares, still trying to take it all in. It can't be true, it just can't. There's no way at all, ever, in the history of the universe, that this could be real. God, whether she believes in him or not and she may or may not still be on the fence about that one, just can't be this cruel. It's just…Not possible. Not if she's to believe what all those touchy-feely people have been telling her since she was small; that God is benevolent, and kind, and would never make poor, underpaid, US Marshals deal with something of the nature. It was inhumane. It was practically against the Geneva Convention, for God's sakes!

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, she slowly lifts her arm, moving no other part of her body as she does it, since even lifting her arm takes a Herculean effort at this point, she again hits the 'play' button. Again she watches the same unbelievable events unfold before her very glassy, staring-into-the-distance eyes.

_The tape starts innocuously enough, the same sketchy, wavering black-and-white footage of the same sketchy, wavering convenience store entrance she's seen a million times before: a man stands at the cash register, bathed in the harsh, almost supernova like sunlight pouring in through the windows, throwing his face into obscurity. It is obviously a slow day, since there are no customers milling around the shelves with the over-priced, overly-sugared, overly-caffeinated 'snacks' and beverages arranged on them. He even seems to be nodding off against his propped up arm. And so the glamorous and fast-paced dream job of a Stop-N-Go cashier goes on._

_Suddenly the man looks up at a spot located just underneath the camera, she assumes it's the front door and the cheerful bell-jingling has alerted him to it's opening, Whatever he sees sends him stumbling back against the case full of neatly-stacked cancer sticks behind him and he raises his hands in the classic 'Don't shoot!' pose seen in every cliché Hollywood movie and crime scene footage the world over. Unlike most of those cliché movies however, this unfortunate man does not get his wish. What looks like a shot-gun blast to the chest sends him down behind the counter in a spray of blood and buckshot._

_Whoever these guys are, the Mala Noches, they are obviously pros. They enter the frame wearing face concealing masks that also cover their hair but leaves their eyes unobstructed, they even wear long sleeved shirts and long pants that actually stay on their asses as they walk; the shirts so that they cover any tattoos or distinguishing scars or marks they may have, the pants because they're not dipshits and know there is a chance they may have to make a break for it, which is hard to do with your drawers around your ankles. So, pros. Not common street thugs that's for sure._

_They calmly enter, five in total. Two go to the cash register, nonchalantly stepping high to avoid the man bleeding out on the floor below them; one starts to mess with the register, the other keeps his gun up and his eyes on the windows. Two more disappear into the back of the store where the office and most likely the safe are located. The last they only know is there because he edged slightly into frame with the rest of them before ducking back out of sight, presumably to guard the door. If all of this seems a little over-kill, it's because it is. Efficient, yes, ruthlessly so, but over-kill. No way had their leader sent five guys to rob one store. Something was definitely Up._

_All goes well for about five minutes as evidenced by the time stamp at the bottom of the camera; then something odd happens: the man guarding the entrance runs into the shot and gestures to the man at the register, pointing back toward the door. They all disappear from view, the single man behind the aisle nearest the door, the other two crouching behind the counter. They stay this way for another thirty point six seconds before all suddenly reappearing violently, firing towards the as-yet-unseen person at the door. They're all carrying heavy-gage double-barrel shotguns which all bark out their charges rapid fire. There is no way anyone could survive a direct hit from even one, let alone all. The poor civilian is most undeniably dead. _

_The man in the aisle had taken several steps forward as he fired on the customer, out of range of his buddies' fire, but close enough to the entrance as to edge out of frame. He reappears exactly two point seven seconds after the last shot is fired, catapulted at least twenty feet across the store and taking out two of the aisles as his body falls. He does not get back up. The two at the counter scramble to reload but don't manage it before the person, who should by all rights be dead, walks into frame. He walks in hands raised, back to the camera, and stops half-way to the counter, apparently trying to talk to the two gang-members standing there. Whatever he says doesn't work because as soon as they are reloaded, they fire four shots point blank into his chest._

_There is no doubt about it this time, the man had been hit, the footage is not so grainy as to not show hit body jerk at each impact. He should immediately slump to the ground dead; hell the force _should've _knocked him back at least forty feet before he even fell. Neither of these things happened. What happens is impossible and defies all laws of physics, nature, and life itself._

_The man simply takes two strides forward, hauls his arms back and cold-cocks the first guy; he goes down and doesn't get back up either, and as the other brings the gun back up to fire again, the unknown assailant goes around the counter, grabs the gun, throws it behind him, seizes the guy by the shoulders, bring up his knee and slams it into his gut. The guy slumps and drops face-down on the ground. Then the 'unknown' man vanishes behind the counter himself and with that the tape ends._

_The antiquated television finally sputters to a halt and snow once more fills the screen. _

* * *

друзья- friends

(As always, please correct me if I'm wrong!)

I'm just so very mean aren't I? But I wouldn't worry, I have several more paragraphs written out already, so you will most likely get another new chapter soon. No four, five, six month or however long it was waiting period this time, I promise. (:

Until next time.


	10. Break Down

I am a terrible person. Seriously. I should be flogged, I know it.

B-But here's the newest chapter! So plz to be no flog? :D /shot

Sad lack of plot in this chapter, but lots of shippy and kinda angsty things happening. So there's that.

Warnings: swearing, M/M relationships (can be taken as Gen if you stand on your head and squint real hard), and some angst.

Disclaimer: PPFFFFFFFFFF-AHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh wait, you were serious? Oh. Well. Uh. Not mine. :I

Enjoy this incredibly late chapter!

* * *

"It makes no sense! None at all!" Mary had finally come out of her self-imposed stupor raring mad and ready to fight. Because Mary hated not knowing things, but she hated not _understanding _things even more. And she didn't understand this, not one bit. Because there was nothing to understand. What she had just seen, what they had all just seen was. Not. Possible. It just wasn't, end of story. No man could take four rounds of buckshot to the chest at close range and live to tell the tale. They. Just. Couldn't. Stan sighs and runs his hand across his head, an unconscious habit that Mary and Marshall had long ago decided must be a throw-back to the days when he had hair.

"I know it doesn't make sense Inspector Shannon. We all know that, but the fact of the matter is, it's what happened. It's even in the official report, all typed out nice in black and white and in triplicate: Alfred F. Jones, twenty-one years old from Washington D.C stopped an attempted robbery by several members of the notorious Mala Noches gang."

"But _how _Stan? Huh? Tell me that! Show me where they explain that all nice and typed up in triplicate, because believe you me, I am _dying _to know how the bigwigs explained that one!"

"Well that's the thing. They _didn't _explain it. Or, more like, the explanation they gave isn't the whole truth. It tells how Mr. Jones entered the store, and that he managed to subdue four armed men, conveniently leaving out _how _exactly it was he managed this, then called 911 to inform them of what happened and to ask for an ambulance to be sent for our would-be burglars as well as our unfortunate cashier there. All of this is documented along with witness testimony, the only one of credibility being the one given by Alfred Jones at the scene; but the whole thing is so glossed-over and fuzzy on the details it's like they wrote it with rose-colored glasses on."

"And, what, the gang-members just happened to all contract a mysterious case of amnesia at the same goddamn time?"

"Mary, he put _two _gang-members into comas from head-trauma, one of which hasn't even come out it yet, and the doctors don't think he ever will. The other two started babbling about super-powers, what the hell do you _think _the cops thought?"

"What about our fifth gang-banger? You only mentioned four." Marshall, ever the voice of reason and focusing on the bigger picture and all that jazz.

"One of them got away, escaped out the back door while the kid called 911."

"What? You're telling me one of those thugs actually got away? He's a security risk! Why didn't you tell us this?"

"It was all very hush-hush, I only found out myself this morning. Of course I read them the riot act about not informing the people who are supposed to be protecting the kid of every detail that may be deemed relevant, but you know the higher ups, couldn't give a rat's-Mary, where are you going?"

She didn't even pause in the act of pulling on her jacket, just answered over her shoulder as she walked out the door. "Goin' fishin'."

* * *

"Matt? Hey, Mattie, you still here?" Alfred tossed his bomber-jacket over the back of a chair near the front door as he entered, not even breaking stride to see if it actually met its intended target. It did, but that's not the point. He continued ignoring the man behind him as completely as he had all the way back to the safe-house. This suited Ivan just fine. It was a welcome break from the steady stream of chatter the American could usually keep up for hours if you didn't interrupt him. It was also a warning sign, one he'd come to recognize over those tense years when they could barely tolerate one another, so he kept in mind to tread lightly. Despite his unwavering desire to rile up the younger man, his instincts were telling him to back off, and he decided to listen to them. For now.

America found what he was looking for in the kitchen, after he spent a good ten minutes wandering around trying to remember what exactly it was he was trying to find. His brother had left a note taped politely to the fridge, unobtrusive and plain, just like the nation whom had written it.

_Alfred, now that I know you're okay, I've decided to head home. Can't afford to be away to long, I'm sure you understand. And try to call England if you get the chance; I've tried but he's forgotten my number again so he isn't answering. Try to stay out of trouble, for my sake if not your own. Matthew._

America let his head clunk against the cool metal of the appliance, muttering a curse under his breath. Great, now he was alone with that stupid, irritating, evil, conniving-

"What was that you were saying Amerika? I couldn't understand you, what with your face all squished against the refrigerator like that, but I do so like to be kept in the loop. You never know, one of these days you may actually say something half-way intelligent and I don't want to be one to such a rare event. It would be like missing a meteor shower and knowing you won't see another one for several hundred years, if ever."

The taller nation's highly-amused words came from several feet behind him rather than right next to his ear as he'd almost come to expect. As it was, it probably the only thing that kept his face intact since America was starting to feel particularly homicidal. His headache had come back to pound in his ears again, having gone away for a few hours but now returned full-force; and it felt like it had brought friends. Friends that were currently dancing a conga on his cerebral cortex. He thumped his head softly against the cold surface again, grateful for the soothing effect of the cold on his over-heated forehead. Funny, since it was probably the only time in his memory that the cold had actually done something _good _for him. Heaving out a sigh that left him feeling hollowed out and tired and so very _old, _he turned his head just slightly so he could address the other nation, though not enough to remove his head from the comforting frigidity of the metal.

"What do you want Russia? Why are you here, really? I know it's not just to 'check up on me' or whatever your excuse was earlier. So let's just get it over with now, I'm too tired to deal with this right now."

"I am confused why you keep asking me that question. I have given you an answer, the same one actually, several times. I wonder why you think me answer should change when you ask it again." It sounded as if he'd moved closer, though America didn't bother to waste the energy required to turn his head and check.

"Russia. You _hate _me, remember? I may not know why, and as of right this very second I don't much care, but the truth still stands. You can't stand me, and I find your presence taxing. So what. do. you. _want_?" His grammar always got better when he was tired or close to his breaking point. Strange trait, that.

"And what makes you think you actually _want _to hear the answer, hm?" Yep, definitely closer.

America's fist clenched at his sides but he didn't move, breathing steadily through his nose, forcing himself to be calm. Punching Russia in the face was not a good idea on so many levels, no matter what his brain was telling him. Although he had a feeling that his options would soon be coming down to either punching Ivan's face in or busting out crying. He was just so tired and achey and so old but so _young _and he didn't have any idea how to handle this and he it wasn't like he had anybody to turn to for help and it was just so hard all by himself and he really just wanted to go to sleep for forever and let the whole world work out their own damn problems their own damn selves but he couldn't do that cause he was the United States of America and he was supposed to be able to handle everything life through at him with a smile and a laugh but he just _couldn't _some times and why couldn't people just _leave him alone_?

"Amerika?" He was almost directly behind him now and Alfred had the feeling he'd been standing there for a while and he just hadn't noticed but he didn't care and he was just so fucking tired he could fall asleep all crumpled over like this and-

Long arms wrapped around his shoulders and gently turned him around and he let them because there really wasn't anything else he could do at this point. Those same careful hands lifted his chin up and Alfred knew Russia was still there, was standing close enough that he could feel him breathe but it was hard to see cause his vision was swimming, whether with pain or unshed tears or both he wasn't sure. Probably both. Russia let go of his chin in favor of winding his cold arms around the shorter man's waist and pulling him into a hug, still so careful with him like he thought he'd break into a thousand pieces if he handled him too roughly and fuck now he was crying and he didn't have the strength to break free. So instead he just let himself be held, bunching his fists into the front of Ivan's borrowed sweater and bowing his head to bury it in his collar bone and crying for the first time in forever because it was just too much sometimes and no one had ever really cared before and even though he knew Ivan didn't really care either and this was probably just another one of his twisted games but right then it felt like he really did care, maybe just a little and so Alfred held tight and just cried and cried and cried.

And Ivan let him do it, abandoning words in favor of resting his chin on top of the blonde's head and just holding still because it was what he was there for after all. To be there for his friend, even if that friend has convinced himself they no longer were.

* * *

Oh I am just so mean to Alfred aren't I? I don't mean to be! I swear! There was supposed to be lots of plot-moving-forwardness in this chapter, but I dunno, America just got all upset and angsty and I just HAD to have somebody there to comfort him, I mean c'mon, I'm not completely heart-less!

I know I promised faster updates last time, so I won't promise that again for fear of breaking that promise again. But did you know that how many reviews I get does actually effect the speed at which I put out chapters? Promise. (:

Merry incredibly belated Christmas everyone! And happy last day of Hannukah to any Jewish readers I may have out there!

(And look Ma, no cliff-hangers! :D)


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